


Acceptance

by MasonRust



Category: Thunderbirds
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family, Gen, Grief/Mourning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-03
Updated: 2015-11-03
Packaged: 2018-04-29 16:18:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5134154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MasonRust/pseuds/MasonRust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The five stages of grief - acceptance. Virgil has finally reached the end of the tracks in his grief and must decide what to do next.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Acceptance

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Five Stages Series - Gordon Tracy](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/153560) by carryonstarkid. 



When Virgil opened his eyes to the ceiling that morning, he was already awake. The lingering tiredness, the deep lethargy that had settled itself deep into his limbs was gone. The air was warm on his skin, the morning still free of the humidity that would come later in the day to rust any exposed metal not coated properly. Virgil noted that he should probably refresh the layers of zinc paint that protected the hangar from the inevitable corrosion. Still unmoving, Virgil blinked again at the ceiling, watching the play of sunlight through the curtains. It bathed the room in yellow, keeping out the harsh white that usually came with the morning. He sighed, gazing at the diffused light across his ceiling. Virgil decided it was time to get out of bed.  
The shower was cold, the way Virgil always had his showers. He washed his hair then stepped out into the bathroom. Toweling himself dry, he changed into clean clothes and went in search of breakfast.

The house was almost empty, silent in the morning light that streamed through the windows. It was starting to heat up already, and when Virgil opened the fridge the cool that washed over him was a relief. Pouring himself a glass of orange juice and retrieving the bread, Virgil stuck six slices into the toaster and waited. The silence was starting to bear down a little, the sheer weirdness of it unsettling Virgil. He lived in a house with four brothers, thee was no such thing as silence. Yet here it was, and Virgil jumped slightly when his toast popped up. He smeared them with a little too much jam and settled down at the table, watching the pool and the water beyond it. It was picturesque, the sun having risen over the water and now casting an eye across the blue water. Virgil ate his toast a bite at a time and watched the silence, its unsettling blanket disappearing as he listened. Because it wasn’t real silence, wasn’t permanent. It was the calm before the storm, the early hours before the others rose. Normally Virgil would be in the middle of a frenzy, Gordon swimming, Scott eating while talking to dad, Alan complaining and himself still half asleep and wanting to strangle the closest brother practically vibrating with energy. But it was abandoned, empty, Gordon sleeping later than he’d ever slept in his life, Scott probably slumped over his desk from the night before and Alan lying in his bed, probably awake and staring at the ceiling. John had disappeared back to 5 the other night, Scott and his impressive fight audible even to Virgil at the end of the corridor. Virgil sipped on the juice and wiped his mouth, stacking the plates together and placing them in the sink. Returning to the couch, Virgil settled back and listened longer, eyes slightly shut.  
Scott emerged first, stumbling into the kitchen and making himself a cup of coffee, not speaking a word to Virgil. This silence was worse than before, the words unsaid more uncomfortable than their absence.  
“Have you spoken to John?”  
“No.”  
The conversation didn’t continue beyond that. Alan appeared briefly and snuck away with a bagel before Scott could pin him down but Virgil didn’t think Scott would be pinning anyone down today. He stared into his cup of coffee like it would show him the answers, letting the steam rise across his face. Perhaps he wanted to drown in it instead. Virgil went back to contemplating the water. The birds had started singing, and the racket was enough to wake the dead. Looking back at Scott, Virgil could see trouble brewing as his mouth slowly twisted into a thin line, face transforming before he flung the cup at the wall.  
“Fuck!”  
Bits of white porcelain dripped with brown coffee down the olive wallpaper. Scott smashed both hands into the counter.  
“Fuck.”  
The eldest hightailed it out of the room, the sound of the study door closing making the floor vibrate. Virgil watched the coffee drip into a cold puddle on the floor. Pulling some paper out from under the coffee table, Virgil looked at the white surface. He placed it back down and stood, intending to grab himself some coffee and maybe try to pick up the broken pieces off the floor before anyone else drifted through like a passive-aggressive ghost.  
Virgil had just finished gathering the largest pieces of the mug when a voice issued from behind his back.  
“Is Scott going to be alright?”  
Virgil jumped, slicing one of his fingers open one of the smaller pieces. Blood oozed out and he swore, sticking his finger in his mouth. It tasted like coffee and copper. Virgil twisted his head and looked up at his youngest brother. Alan wasn’t smiling, and there were smudges of black under his eyes.  
“I heard him and John. Last night.”  
Virgil rose, silent, not sure yet what to say. There was a light in Alan’s eyes, close to feverish.  
“John’s wrong isn’t he? He can’t be gone. He’ll be back. John’s stupid.”  
“John’s not stupid.”  
“But he’s wrong”  
The light had grown, and it made Virgil distinctly uncomfortable. For once, he just couldn’t find any words. Alan read the hesitation in his eyes and paused, face twisting again.  
“You believe him too? How could you believe him? Dad’s coming back, he’s going to come back!”  
Alan ripped himself away and ran before Virgil could grab him. Finger forgotten, Virgil went to go after him.  
“Don’t”  
It was Gordon, leaning against a wall. His eyes were dull, and he was watching Virgil. Virgil stood and grabbed a plaster from the draw, wrapping it around his finger. The silence had returned. Virgil felt something stirring in his gut, something very close to energy.  
“I’m going up to the guest house.”  
“See you later then Picasso.”  
Gordon didn’t smile as he spoke, the words dull and it was Virgil’s turn to flee the room.

He worked until the sun was high, and then until it was growing low. Virgil painted, and while it dried he sketched, and then he painted another layer. It was dark by the time his ideas had percolated, and Virgil grabbed the sketch along with a piece of his canvas. Then he set off towards the water.

The sand was warm from the sun, and Virgil watched the stars rise over the water, occasionally swatting at a mosquito that got too close to his face. The canvas was creased and folded but still flat and mournful on the ground. Virgil had never been good at origami. Sensing movement, he picked up the sheet and held it in the air, a metaphorical white flag.  
“I’ve always been shit at origami, so why don’t you have a go?”  
John picked the sheet out of Virgil’s hands and sat, barely displacing any sand. There was a slight crease between his eyes as he folded, and Virgil could see the tension in his face.  
“What did you want me to make?”  
“A boat.”  
John nodded and began to fold with more purpose. Virgil watched his hands move over the paper.  
“I talked to Alan. He heard you and Scott.”  
“All of you heard that?”  
“Yeah. Alan’s pretty angry.”  
“Is he?”  
“Yeah.”  
John finished folding the canvas and handed it over. The boat was even and sturdy. Virgil picked up his sketch and placed it inside.  
“And you?”  
John’s gaze was piercing, but then it was always piercing. All his life, it had only been a matter of time once John transferred that gaze before people started spilling the beans.  
“I’m … alright.”  
As he spoke, Virgil realized it was true. He was all right. Not good, but…all right. John looked at him, a long look.  
“I thought I’d have a farewell. One that wasn’t the funeral.”  
It was the first time Virgil had mentioned the funeral. But it hadn’t really been a funeral, not when none of them had thought he was dead. Closed casket, no body left for burial. Not this time.  
“When we were younger, do you remember when Scott discovered Viking burial rituals?”  
“In between the Hindu marriage practices and the Greek gods?”  
John gave a short laugh. It was the first time Virgil had heard him laugh for a long time. The memory certainly was amusing, and Scott had bored them all with long explanations of the statues in their living room. At least it was better than The Red and the Black.  
“I always liked the idea”  
Virgil picked up his little boat and set the picture upright. John leaned over.  
“Do you have matches?”  
“Yep.”  
The box of matches resting in Virgil’s pocket was outdated and battered, but when Virgil pulled out one of the matches it still lit. Virgil touched it to the top of the picture and the fire began to eat its way through the paper. John and he carried it to the water and set it on the surface. It drifted away slightly, the flames eating through his fathers face and across the canvas surface.  
“He’s gone, and he isn’t coming back.”  
Virgil’s voice was stronger than he’d thought it could be, the words once spoken true in the air. John nodded, and watched the flames devour the little ship as it drifted away.  
“We need to get back to work.”  
John didn’t reply, just stared over the water. Virgil watched as the boat began to sink, logged with water, and the flames began to dim. Soon there was nothing left of it in the darkness of the water. John looked back at him and nodded. His eyes were like steel, and for an instant Virgil remembered just how much he respected his brother. It made him straighten, and Virgil felt something returning to him as well. In that moment, Virgil knew that they would continue, pick themselves up off the ground, dust themselves off and walk on, the same way they always did. They were the Tracy’s, and they were International Rescue. And that was enough of a reason to keep going.


End file.
